A Winter Prince
by latessitrice
Summary: It's not like Darcy even wants to be on this flight to Oravia, a country she'd barely heard of before yesterday. A tiny European kingdom, sandwiched between Romania, Hungary, and Ukraine, it's never been on her list of travel ambitions. Even if one of the supposed perks of her job is the possibility of travel, or an overseas posting, it wasn't supposed to happen like this. Why coul


**This was inspired by that Netflix classic, A Christmas Prince. I started working on it last year then put it aside after the Christmas season was over, although this is definitely more winter-themed than holiday themed. I would like to finish it before the end of January, but we all know that's not going to happen. Maybe January 2020.**

 **Hopefully this will do the seasonal romcom justice. Expect a big dollop of cheese and more than a dash of implausibility.**

 **If you've watched the film, don't assume you know how the story is going to turn out - as you can probably tell from the first chapter, I already changed things.**

 **All errors are, as ever, my own.**

* * *

Darcy's on her third consecutive flight in less than 24 hours and it is by far the suckiest.

The plane is tiny, a little puddle jumper with propellers which only carries around fifty people. It's not surprising since there's probably little call for airliners to tiny principalities in Eastern Europe, but she'd still cursed under her breath when she'd transferred at Heathrow and had to climb into a tin-can with wings. It's hardly the luxury travel she'd been hoping for when she took a job with the Department of State, but the plane is too small to have business class, let alone first class.

None of this is enough to make the flight truly suck. It's only three hours long but they're still serving complementary alcohol and snacks, so Darcy can deal without all those little extras. What's making this three hours feel even longer than the Atlantic crossing is the guy she's seated next to.

He's a big guy, long-legged and broad-shouldered, so she'd have some sympathy with him if he didn't have a serious case of manspreading going on. Even his elbows are involved, creeping way over the central armrest into her territory and he doesn't seem to get the hint when she keeps knocking him back into his own space. He doesn't even apologize, just grunts and turns his attention back to the window.

Oh yeah, and he claimed the window seat even though Darcy's ticket clearly shows she's meant to be next to the window and he's meant to have the aisle. She can forgive many things, but not him stealing her view of Europe as they cross over it. His stupid shoulders completely block any glimpse she might hope to catch.

It'd started innocently enough. When she'd spotted him sat there, right in the front row of seats, she double-checked the boarding pass clutched in her hand to make sure she had the right number, cleared her throat, and put on the politest smile she was capable of on limited caffeine. She was running on five hours of dubious sleep, snatched on the longest flight and leaving her with a crick in her neck, her eyeballs felt like they were on fire, her mouth was dryer than the Sahara, and she was pretty sure her deodorant had not lived up to its 36 hour promise. She was not in the mood for this.

"Hi—I think you're in my seat?"

She thought the dude gave her a once over, but it was hard to tell because he was wearing shades. That was two whole strikes against him by Darcy's reckoning. Between the long, shaggy, dark hair and the bushy beard obscuring most of his face, there wasn't much of him to see, except for the lines on his forehead as he frowned, and cheekbones sharp enough to strike a match on.

"I'm meant to be sat on my own," he replied. American—it figured he'd one of her own, earning the nation their solid international reputation. Then he turned his attention back to his phone, without moving his bag from the aisle seat so Darcy could at least sit down.

"I don't know about that. But my ticket definitely says I'm meant to be sat here."

"You'll need to sit somewhere else." He didn't even bother looking at her when he said it.

"Excuse me?" But she got no response at all to that, so she had to flag down one of the cabin crew, an extremely well-groomed woman Darcy's age who took one look at Lumberjack Douche and flinched.

"He looks, ah, settled," she said, her precisely red-painted lips bared over clenched teeth. "I think it would be easier for you to sit here, da?" She gestured to the aisle seat, which was still cluttered with his possessions.

"Can't she sit elsewhere?" he asked gruffly, and despite the fact he was still wearing those ridiculous shades, something about his stare made the poor woman look close to tears. "I need the space."

Then there was a back and forth between the pair in what must have been Romanian, with the crew member practically genuflecting at the asshole.

"Fine." He cleared the seat grudgingly so Darcy would sit down, the crew member tottered away to have a fortifying vodka, and the battle for the armrest began. Darcy got the shawl she was knitting out of her project bag and began making sure she had something to jab him with if he spread out too far.

Darcy's not an idiot. She knows he must be someone vaguely important or famous, or the crew member wouldn't have reacted like that. Probably a rock star she's never heard of who makes life hell for anyone unlucky enough to provide a service for him. That would explain the shades, the attitude, and the head-to-toe black. Dude even has a glove on his left hand like he thinks he's a latter-day Michael Jackson. He's gotta be some David Hasselhoff deal, barely known in the States but big in Romania. But it's tough cookies for him, because she's here on official US government business and won't be intimidated by bargain-basement Jim Morrison wannabes.

It's not like Darcy even wants to be on this flight to Oravia, a country she'd barely heard of before yesterday. A tiny European kingdom, sandwiched between Romania, Hungary, and Ukraine, it's never been on her list of travel ambitions. Even if one of the supposed perks of her job is the possibility of travel, or an overseas posting, it wasn't supposed to happen like this. Why couldn't they be sending her to London? Or Sydney? Not the kind of place they shipped you off to if you screwed up. Not that Darcy _had_ screwed up—she's just the most junior person in the department and has to jump when they tell her to.

She's read the briefing pack sent to her over and over until she has the damn thing memorised. Oravia is barely ten square miles big and pretty much consists of a castle and some villages stuck in the mountains. The king died a year ago, leaving his errant son as heir, only the errant son is AWOL, meaning his cousin had to step in as regent. Now the prince is on a deadline: get crowned by the end of the month, or lose the throne permanently, thanks to some new loopholes added by parliament.

The whole thing had been low-level gossip fodder for weeks, but now the deadline looms and Oravia is facing a constitutional crisis, the ambassador wants additional support staff in case things went sideways. Darcy's been drafted in at stupidly short notice, and is cursing the idiot prince for not just confirming he didn't want the throne and getting it over with.

From the sound of things, Oravia would be better off without him. The only reason she's ever heard of the place is from when he—James—ended up in the headlines. First as a renowned playboy, breaking the heart of an English princess so he could keep partying in the US, then deciding to play soldier and getting his squadron blown up. From what Darcy's read of the current regent, Steven, he's much more level-headed with medals for valor for his military service, a respected wife known for her political astuteness, and a young daughter who's the darling of the world press. He's been doing the job since his uncle was ill and proven himself more than capable. It seems a shame for James to come back in and take something he's not earned.

Darcy's train of thought is interrupted by her neighbour.

"Can you stop doing that?"

"Doing what?" Since the only thing Darcy's doing is knitting, he has to mean that, but she's decided to be a pain in his ass. It's not like she has anything better to do and he's earned it.

"Clacking. With the needles. How do they even let you on board with those things anyway? They're pretty much a ready-made shiv."

Darcy doesn't even pause. "If the clacking annoys you, you should put headphones on. This soothes me." Her implied meaning hangs between them: _I'm not stopping, buddy_. She wishes she could use the needles to turn him into a _shish-kabob_ , but that would be an ignoble beginning _and_ end to her career.

Beardy McGruff sighs and doesn't even have the grace to look worried about the possibility of her shoving a Knitpick up his nose.

At least the person on the other side of the aisle is better company. Darcy's read her briefing pack several times over and memorized the contents, and the short notice hadn't given her much time to pack more reading material. Worse, the battery on her Kindle has died and the charger is definitely still in D.C. She hopes she can order a replacement when she reaches her destination. But the regal old lady spots Darcy deliberating over a bag of mini cookies on the refreshment cart and enables her.

"Go on," she urges, while the crew member waits patiently for Darcy to choose between that and an apple. "Life's too short to always make the boring choice."

Darcy has no idea who the lady is, other than she's everything Darcy wants to be when she grows old, with her white hair rinsed through with scarlet, her throat wreathed in diamonds, and her nails tipped in glossy black. "I shouldn't, I've been eating nothing but airplane food for the last day."

"What about if you get the apple and I split the bag with you?"

"Deal!"

The lady introduces herself as Tali, and proceeds to ask Darcy about herself in that rich, rolling accent.

"Are you going to Oravia for work?" She gestures to Darcy's pantsuit, which is slightly shabbier than it was when she set out the previous day.

"Yep. It's very last minute."

"Journalist, then, I presume."

"Oh, no. Is that why the flight's full?"

"Of course. You wouldn't think anybody would have much interest in my little country, but everybody appears to be fascinated by the succession drama."

"Ugh. If there was ever a better reason to abolish monarchies, this is it. Just get rid of the bloodsucking leeches and go full democracy."

"Not a fan of royalty?" Tali chuckles. Beardy shifts besides Darcy but she ignores him, since his elbow hasn't yet migrated into her ribs. "And Oravia is a constitutional monarchy, you know. We already have democracy. We've had it longer than Americans."

"So why bother with the the royals? They just make things more complicated. Present situation being the perfect example."

"You've got a strong opinion on this, though I suppose I would expect an American to be a staunch republican."

"Well, I majored in Political Science at college, and then did my post-grad in it. It's kind of a passion of mine, and I've yet to come across a good example of a monarchy being the better option."

Tali raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes you have to live through worse to realise what you have." Before she can clarify that enigmatic comment, she moves onto a new subject. "Though I can't say I know the royal family myself, even if my dear niece Natasha works with them."

"Really? What does she do?"

Tali smiles wolfishly. "Security. Always was a feisty little thing."

The cookies are all gone by the time the seatbelt light comes back on, and the apple still lies untouched. Darcy shoves it into her bag for later and sits back to wait for landing. She's hoping that maybe she'll get chance to see something of Oravia from the air, but no, there's too much beard in the way. It's like nobody's ever told him you can trim them or groom them or take care of them in any way. At least he doesn't have food in it.

He takes to tapping in his fingers on his thighs—which are as broad as the rest of him—and he's lucky she's put her knitting away or he really would end up with a needle straight through the ear. She has to dig her nails into her palm and try to block his presence out.

None of it matters once she's off the plane and in the tiny airport hanger. And it really is a hanger, even with its attempts at providing a little retail therapy, which is basically one duty-free-store-slash-bookstore-slash-tourist-information-office.

Darcy doesn't go rushing to the collection point, instead finding the bathroom to try and make herself look human again. She doesn't know who's coming to pick her up but there's a chance they'll go straight to the embassy, and she needs to make a good first impression. Her hair looks exactly like she's just spent over a day on airplanes, her mascara is MIA, and only a liberal application of concealer hides the bags under her eyes. Her contact lenses only lasted for the Atlantic leg and now she's back to her glasses, but she thinks they help her look smart and professional. Plus they mask the bleariness a little. She even strips off her jacket and blouse to have a quick wash and reapply that lying deodorant, though then she has to put them back on which feels pointless.

There'd been such a rush Darcy hadn't had chance to get a manicure, or have any of her stuff dry-cleaned. Instead she'd bought a bottle of polish in JFK to paint her nails a nice, subdued nude, and figured someone at the embassy would be able to point her in the direction of a dry cleaning service.

By the time she exits the bathroom the hanger-cum-terminal is alarmingly empty. She collects her bag from the empty luggage carousel and follows the sign to the arrivals area. The arrivals and departures boards are eerily blank, though Darcy knew the flights to and from here aren't frequent. Outside there's a taxi rank, with only one cab idling in it. She can't see anyone except a cleaner slowly sweeping the expanse of the floor.

Through the glass doors, snow flakes are falling. This is what Darcy feared. She is not a winter person, and everything she's read about Oravia says winter here is very much of the snowdrifts and icicles kind. Her wardrobe needs a major upgrade to cope, because she was woefully unprepared even for a Washington winter.

She digs out her cellphone and makes a call to the contact number she's been provided. It rings and rings and rings, until one very harassed female voice answers.

"Yes?"

"Is this Alice?" Darcy asked. "It's Darcy Lewis. I was told to call you if I had any queries."

"Oh, Lewis, right. How can I help?"

"Well, I'm at the airport, and there doesn't seem to be anybody here to collect me."

There's a moment of silence. "Is there meant to be?"

"Yes?" Darcy has a moment of doubt before rallying. "Yes! Janette told me there'd be a car to collect me."

"Huh." Darcy can hear Alice shuffling paperwork around. "That's great of Janette to say that, but I don't think we've arranged that. You're better off catching a cab to your hotel."

"Okay. Wait—hotel? Haven't you arranged an apartment for me?"

"You know, I think I need to speak to Janette. Just catch a cab here and I should have all of this straightened out. But I'd move quickly if I were you—there's a big blizzard due and you don't want to get stuck before you get into town."

Alice rings off and Darcy grabs her case, wheeling it purposefully out of the doors towards the one idling cab. She doesn't have any local currency on her but the embassy will sub her when she gets there.

The outside air makes her shiver—her flimsy coat is no match for how bitingly cold it is—but it doesn't matter when she'll be in the car within seconds. Except—

"Hey!"

A figure comes hurtling past her, and Darcy has an impression of beard and shades before it climbs into the back of the cab.

"That's my cab!" she yells. It makes the Douche pause.

"You'll probably need to call one from the payphone." Then he slams the door shut, and the cab sets off, leaving Darcy alone on the darkening curb.

She whirls around and heads back into the warmth, looking for the payphone or at least somewhere that might have the number of a firm she can call. The tourist information place has closed and even the cleaner has disappeared. Darcy has the feeling that if she doesn't get out of here soon she'll be spending the blizzard here.

"Fucking bearded asshole," she mutters under her breath, turning to find herself face to face with a grinning man inches from her face.

He's shorter than her, but that doesn't stop her from squealing and shoving herself backwards away from him. This doesn't seem to deter him.

"American?" he asks in a heavy accent, like Tali's but dialled up to eleven.

"Y—yes." Now she takes in his uniform—and it _is_ a uniform, a perfectly pressed royal blue suit with a cap on his head and shiny, shiny black shoes.

"Come with me," he continues, gesturing for her to follow him with his white-gloved hands.

"Um. No. Thanks. I don't know who you are."

"No, you come!"

"I think I'll just wait for a cab."

He sighs and she doesn't know if he's actually understood her or not. Instead he trundles off, leaving her rooting through a stack of leaflets for tourist attractions and what she thinks might be the number for a cab company.

But then the man comes back and this time there's a woman with him. She's not in a uniform but she is wearing a royal blue skirt-suit that might as well be one, and she's carrying a clipboard. Darcy instinctively trusts her for the clipboard alone.

"American!" the driver repeats, pointing at Darcy.

"I am," she confirms, "but—"

"American! We're sent for you!" the woman says. "Come, come!"

"But Alice said—"

"Quickly—bad snow coming."

Darcy takes a second to weight her options. Go off into the night with these two, who were probably sent by the embassy and only might kill her and drop her body off a mountainside, or spend a few days in an empty airport with nothing to eat or do.

She figures she can try to bludgeon them with her dead Kindle if she needs to, and follows them.

The car's a shiny black SUV with shiny black windows, the kind that screams "secret service", because the American government never does anything subtly. Darcy climbs into the back seat while the man loads her luggage into the trunk with a smile. Her escorts are very cheerful, but since her Romanian is non-existent and their English is minimal, the journey lapses into silence after the woman introduces herself as Vera. Darcy's kind of glad about the silence. She could do with a little peace and quiet after being in too many enclosed spaces with too many people over the last couple of days.

The silence in the car soothes her into a nap just as the car starts climbing up the mountainside. She's not really asleep, but knee-deep somewhere in the borderlands, unable to keep her eyes open and her mind spinning away about nothing in particular. Only when the car comes to a halt does she peel her eyes open, longing for a warm bed she can throw herself onto, a little disoriented by her brush with sleep, and following her escorts without really taking in her surroundings. The snow is falling thick and fast, adding to the surrealness Darcy is feeling—and fogging up her glasses—and it takes a full minute before her mind processes where they are.

This isn't a charming mountainside town, narrow streets lined with rickety houses stacked up close to each other. There's no hotel, or embassy, or apartment building in front of her, no people going about their business, or car engines. Instead, they're surrounded by forest, the only road leading back down into the trees and down the mountain. The sky is dark and thick with stars, unblighted by the glow of city lights, like all the nights Darcy spent in the New Mexico desert. And the only building to be found is the imposing stone palace she's stood at the entrance to.

She knows it's the palace because photos of it had been all over Google. It's pretty enough, though the white stone doesn't really compete with the snow now settling upon it, and though there are a few towers it hasn't gone full Neuschwanstein. She might even stretch to calling it picturesque. It's just not where she's meant to be.

The problem is that the chauffeur has already taken the SUV and driven off with it, leaving Darcy with Vera, and the porters who have come out into the snow to help with Darcy's luggage. Darcy shuffles after Vera, who's already halfway over the threshold.

"Excuse me?" Darcy calls, and Vera smiles back at her but keep moving.

"Inside—cold!"

Darcy can't argue with that. The massive oak door she passes through gives way to a warm hallway, carpeted in royal blue and hung with various portraits. Vera gives the porters instructions Darcy can't understand, and they set off her with her luggage.

"No—wait—there's been a mistake!" She goes up to Vera, hoping she can understand what she's saying. "I'm not supposed to be here. I need to be in town."

Vera frowns. "American, yes?"

"I _am_ American, but you must get a lot of Americans in Oravia."

It's clear Vera doesn't really understand what Darcy's trying to say, and the porters have disappeared.

"Is there anyone who speaks English here?"

"Yes! Come, come." Vera light ups and waves for Darcy to follow her, through a door and then up a staircase. At the top of the staircase two soldiers in fancy uniform are stationed, looking bored, and with a few words from Vera in Romanian they wave the pair of them through. Meanwhile, Darcy's managed to fish her cellphone out of her purse, but the palace might as well be lined with lead. She's got no service, and precious little battery left. She hopes whoever Vera is taking her to can speak better English so they can get all of this straightened out.

Vera leads Darcy to another door, knocks, and waits for a response before opening it and gesturing Darcy through. She tiptoes into what appears to be a study. The decor's consistent with what Darcy's seen so far, only now there's bonus mahogany furniture and heavy damask curtains over the windows. There are two people in the room: a dark-haired woman with her back to Darcy, and a tall, fair-haired man with a firm jawline and broad shoulders. He's standing with his arms behind his back and his feet firmly planted, as if he's never heard of the concept of standing at ease. She'd venture he's a soldier or has a military past.

Vera shuts the door and drops into a curtsy at Darcy's side, making an introduction Darcy doesn't understand. But the curtseying has her worried and she fumbles one of her own, just to be on the safe side.

Then with a few words from the man, Vera is gone, leaving Darcy on her own with the strangers and a sinking feeling.

The woman turns, rising from her chair with a welcoming smile. She's lovely, with a wide smile and warm eyes. She's also vaguely familiar to Darcy.

"Good evening," she says in a cut-glass English accent. "I understand you'll be tired after such a long journey, but I did ask Vera to bring you here to meet us as soon as you arrived. You'll be spending so much time with our daughter that I feel it's important we build a good relationship and make you feel welcome here."

Darcy's just remembered where she knows the woman from. The sinking feeling has reached its nadir and has now become churning nausea.

"I think there's been a mista—."

As she's about to start to try and unpack the comedy of errors which led to this moment, the door behind her opens and someone walks right into her. She's knocked onto her hands and knees, her glasses tumbling off her face onto the carpet, and her head collides with a vase stand.

The vase—enormous, glittering, undoubtedly priceless—teeters, back and forth, seemingly in slow motion, but that might just be the blurriness of her vision. She can only watch as it topples sideways, falling towards her glasses with an inevitably she can recognise but do nothing to stop. Both objects will end up smashed into pieces.

And those are the only glasses she packed,

A hand swoops in to catch the vase just before it makes impact. A black-gloved hand. She gapes at it for a moment, then follows the line of the arm attached to it, and the body linked to that, all the way to the face of the person who just knocked her over.

"You!" she growls. "You stole my cab!"

The bearded asshole shrugs and casually replaces the vase on the stand while Darcy scrabbles for her glasses. He holds out his other hand to help her to her feet, but she ignores him, pushing herself upright and dusting herself off.

"Bucky!" Prince Stephen says with delighted surprise, at the same moment Princess Margaret says "James!" with rather less delight, the pair of them apparently forgetting about Darcy for the time being. Because of course, she's in the study belonging to the current prince regent of Oravia and his wife.

Which makes "James", the bearded monster, actually Prince Iacob. Heir apparent to the throne of Oravia.


End file.
